True Friendship Requires Truth

Friends are very much like gems, you must remove a lot of rubble to discover them. Like a gem, friends are precious because they are so very rare. The friend is the one who is left after all the others have left, so they are acquired by a process of attrition. A friend will be able to dislike or misunderstand your ideals and still value you. Never be afraid to look a friend in the eye and say, "I disagree. I love you anyway, but I disagree." Be polite, be clear, and be true. You have nothing to lose. If the friendship can't survive your differences, it won't survive anyway. Losing a real friend is actually hard to do and is as rare as friendship itself.

True Friends

When I was an unrepentant heathen I thought I'd be happiest following my own will. What happened, naturally, was that I became more and more willful and less and less happy.

Now that I am trying to become who I was made to be and not reacting to my every whim, I am much happier. As much improved as I am, I had a longer way to come than most, so I am well aware, most of the time, that I follow God's will imperfectly and am apt to need redirection in unexpected moments. God has blessed me with the type of friends who are willing to help me in this regard. They won't let me get away with pettiness and smallness without gently calling me to something better. I'm happy to report that this is not a frequent occurrence.

Being so close to my old habits of sinfulness, it's usually me who has benefited from spiritual redirection from my friends. Not so the other day when I heard: "Why do people like that even come to retreats?"

Whoops. In that split second, I was tempted to let the comment pass. What if she got mad at me? Is it really that bad? Since it smacked of pride and since I knew she'd do the same service for me, I took a breath and dove in. "We're all 'people like that,'" I reminded her. She readily agreed, corrected herself, and added, "They're just not sinning my sins." No big deal. We continued on, discussed the nature of sin, large and small, and in doing so bettered ourselves a bit, or at least bolstered our resolve not to backslide on our backsides. I was glad I braved the subject.

We're all falling so short of perfection that we need almost continual redirection, so I am grateful that I have this woman for my friend. Not only is she trying her best to serve God, she's ready to stand corrected if she doesn't. She is cheerful about it all and much more gentle in her redirection of me. I wish all the world had such a treasure.

Happiness is often found in a true friend.

When My Attitude Needs a Pink Slip

Once when I was a teen, I went shopping with my friend Cheryl and her friend Michelle. Michelle was looking for jeans. She came out of the dressing room with a less than flattering pair and asked the question we women invariably ask.

"Does this make my butt look big?"

Uh...yeah, I thought, but what I said was, "Those aren't great." 

She was insulted. Cheryl assured her they were perfect, but quietly agreed they looked pretty bad when Michelle huffed off into the dressing room. "Just let her get them," she whispered, "She'll be happy." Michelle bought the jeans and never spoke to me again.

I still don't get it, and I'm still not fluent in Girl.

I have a different understanding of what friendship means. I expect my friends to tell me about the spinach in my teeth, the skirt tucked into my pantyhose, the shirt that flops open too much when I bend over. I like avoiding the awful and sudden realization that I've looked bad and no one told me. I'd rather know. I'll go and change.

These same friends will tell me when I'm behaving badly. Trust me, I want to know. I want to be checked. They tell me when I"m getting petty, when my attitude is hiked into my pride and exposing my asinine side to the world. That's what friends are for.

Not liking the skirt on this one, Venus. Just FYI...

Real ones anyway. They'll let you know when you're needing adjustments. Thanks, girls.

Believe It or Not, It's Controversial!

REWIND WEEKEND: As I am off on retreat this weekend, I thought I would rerun some of the marriage posts. We can all use a refresher course on being sweet, after all. (Me included and me especially!) 

Until recently, two good friends and I had an unspoken rule: never bad mouth your husband. The rule is still in effect. We just simply got around to actually talking about it.

Imagine! Three women working, schooling, sewing, cooking, watching children together and not talking about something. Well, it happens. Especially over a topic so potentially hazardous: respecting men.

Don't think the topic is so touchy? Try broaching it among the gals sometimes. If you are male, brace yourself for the look. (You know the one I mean.) If you are female, better just brace yourself. You are in for a diatribe about how backward, oppressed, brainwashed, and just so ickily Catholic you are.

Or maybe you are in for the worst of all, the whispers...Her husband won't even let her talk about him! What!?! Oh, the Poor Thing, and all those children, too!

Male bashing is a sport. On the commercials, sitcoms, and other television drivel, the woman has to take charge and take action in the face of the ineptness of men. Cue the canned laughter, please. He's at it again! Movies, too, especially "family fare" present the bumbling but well meaning father as the standard. Men are childish, we are told. Men can't function without us women, they say. This swill is swirling all around us. We are steeped in it. As a result, women bash their own men. Why not? It's fashionable. It's funny. It's a conversational gimmick, "Oh you'll never believe what he's done now..."

Meanwhile our girls are hearing it all, and our boys are swallowing it.

Back to my friends and I and our unspeakable rule. You'll first need to understand that we sometimes do charity work together, sewing Blessing Blankets for crisis pregnancy centers, sending stockings to soldiers at Christmas, that kind of thing. Working with your hands sets your mouth free. There's a whole lot of conversation covering a whole lot of ground. Plus, we're all Southerners by birth or by association, so for us talk ain't cheap, it's precious!

Well, around November, an acquaintance and her children joined us and ours and worked right alongside us. It was exciting! Here was a new person, with new stories to hear, new kids to get to know, new jokes! It was great!

Until It happened.

She bashed her husband. Not a terrible bash, simply sharing an embarrassing moment of his that I am certain he would not want shared. Especially not with a stranger. So I smiled, caught her eye briefly, and changed the subject. Just the way my mother taught me.

First, you may need to let me teach you: It's a polite Southern way of saving another person's face. One is to ignore a gaffe, smile, and change the subject. It's gentle. It's subtle, and for Southern women, it's unmistakable. You know you've messed up and are being given the grace of an instant replay. It's best to take it. Like being offered gum or a mint. You take it. It's a nice way of saying your breath is bad.

It didn't work. I don't know if she was locked in a habit, but it was almost as if she couldn't help herself. The more I tried to change the subject, the more she offered her husband upon the altar of mutual feminine scorn. It became awkward, so I invented an excuse to briefly leave the vicinity, hoping the conversation might reboot with the interruption. It didn't. I felt terrible. I knew I had probably already ruined any chance of her liking me, and I was sad to be unable to move her mentally from my "acquaintance" category to the "potential friend."

She tried the same conversational gambit with the others throughout the day. And with the same results. The good thing that came of all this awkwardness was that afterwards we three finally broached the subject of male bashing. We spoke our unwritten rule for friendship and realized we all three carried the same litmus test, "Are you trustworthy with your men?"


For me it's like this: I just can't be friends with a woman who would betray someone's trust. Even if that someone is a man. Even if that someone is her husband. In a purely selfish vein, I know that if she's going to do that to him, one day she'll do it to me. And yes, as a mother I don't want my children hearing this type of conversation about a husband and father. As a wife I don't want my husband to overhear me involved in the tearing down of another husband.

But most importantly as a woman and in my small way, I feel duty bound to protect other women's sons from senseless attack. I know how ugly women can be. I thank God I am not a man for that very reason (among others). In all, men are different, a little strange in their thinking, but loveable just the same.

So ladies, if you want to be my friend, you know the rule.


Related Posts:
http://gardenofholiness.blogspot.com/2009/04/attitude-tips-for-wives-and-moms.html

Oven Jambalaya and Adopting a Lousiana Heritage

My biological stepfather introduced me to Jambalaya, but before I share the recipe I'd better untangle the relationship we had.

I was adopted as an infant. When I was 18, my birth mother tracked me down and we began a slow process of getting to know one another. She was married to a man named Royal Peter. He was my biological stepfather; not related to me at all really, except by marriage and by an accident of birth, and through the efforts of two families to get to know each other after 18 years of never having met before. He's been gone now for years, and one of the many ways he influenced me was through food.

When I met him I was of the mind that if I had to cook the food, it wasn't worth eating. I was right about that! I disdained all things feminine and wanted to prove my point to the point that I was actually proud of being a horrible cook. He was a Louisianne and French enough in his outlook that he considered food a heritage. That idea eventually intrigued me enough to start experimenting with my own cultural heritage--Southern cooking, among others. In a way, he planted a seed that is still growing. I love the creativity of cooking and I really love the silence that descends as the first bite of something incredible hits the taste buds and takes control of the brain for a split second before the, "Oh! Wow!" or "Mmmm!" noises begin.

My first exposure to Jambalaya came during a conversation about an impending lunch. I was working on my biological family's ranch at the time. I was outdoors and about a mile from any buildings and by some quirk of necessity and planning I had no transportation. He was the one sent to get me for lunch.

Since it was early spring I was working on sprinklers. Since it was California it was early February. Since it was early February it was nearly Mardi Gras. Since it was nearly Mardi Gras, Roy was missing Louisiana. If he was missing Louisiana, he was going to talk about it. Being hungry he was going to talk about food, too. Since it took me a bit to work myself to a stopping point and since it was a one-person job, he leaned against the bumper of his truck to chat. That's the round about way he got on the subject of food storage in the steamy state.

He said that the week started with roasts on Sunday, sausage and beans on Tuesday, chicken on Wednesday, fish or shrimp on Friday, and leftovers on the days in between. On Saturday, anything leftover from the week that hadn't turned (or had hardly turned), got put into a jumble in a pot, spiced to perfection, and was called Jambalaya. The conversation and the remains of the job took about 20 minutes from start to finish. I could almost taste the talk. He was so descriptive in that Southern gentlemanly way of his, and I was such a foodie even then when I didn't know it yet, I could smell and see all the dishes he described. I've been hunting through Jambalaya recipes looking for him ever since.

So nowadays, whenever I stir the colors of rice and beans, when I smell bay leaf and cayenne I am there again with him in his cowboy hat, big buckle, and boots leaning against the bumper of his truck, his arms crossed and his eyes far away.

Here's our latest conversation:

Oven Jambalaya

3 cups water
1 1/2 cup uncooked regular rice
1 can corn (drained)
1 can diced tomatoes
1 small can diced peppers
1 small onion diced
1 package kielbasa or Italian sausage sliced into half inch disks*
1/2 pound cooked ground beef or breakfast sausage*
1/2 pound cooked chicken shredded or diced*
1/2 pound fresh shrimp peeled and deveined*
2 tsp chili powder
2 cloves garlic crushed
1 tsp paprika
1 tsp thyme
2 bay leaves
dash of cayenne pepper (to taste)
salt and pepper to taste

Combine ingredients in a lightly greased baking dish, cover and bake at 375 degrees for 1 hour. Yields 8 servings.

*The meats for Jambalaya are both interchangeable and optional. When I made this the first time, the meats I had on hand were kielbasa and beef hot dogs. I sliced them up and put them in the dish. Mmmm! I recommend making a Jambalaya in the traditional way whenever you have a bit of this and a bit of that leftover to make a jumble in the pot. Throw in leftover veggies, too, especially leftover okra!

Serves with cornbread muffins and a green salad anytime!

40 Dishes in 40 Days: I know I promised...

...not to update endlessly about the 40 Bags in 40 Days exercise, but I am so jazzed about it! I can't tell you how wonderful it has been to spend 20 minutes or so a day going through all those things I always mean to get to but never do. This challenge has given me the impetus to "get a move on" and "get around to it" finally.

Here's one group of items that have made it into the "Giveaway Pile" much to my relief: my wedding dishes! The dishes were perfectly nice and perfectly serviceable, but there's a story that I haven't shared with many people. The person who bought them gave them to me saying in a whisper, "You'll like these better than the ones you picked out."  As you can imagine, the smile froze on my face for a moment or so.

Did I respond to the implied insult to my taste in dishware? No. Did I return them for the ones I wanted? No. I was polite and contained my irritation. You see, it was a group gift from several friends and this woman had taken charge and purchased them. None of the other friends knew she'd gotten a set I hadn't wanted. I didn't want to hurt their feelings or bother explaining what had happened, so for 10 years I've used them and remembered that moment.

Now I won't have to.

A few years back my mom gave me a set of china with a similar story behind them. As an overenthusiastic newlywed she'd done something similar--purchased dishes that a bride had not picked out. My mother had saved and scrimped and purchased dishes she would have loved to have--much as I can hope my friend had done for me (minus the scrimping). I know that my mother meant well and I have come to want to believe the same of the friend who'd bought my dishes for me. That other bride gave the dishes quietly to her mother to store, and after 40 or so years the dishes meandered back to my mother. They're mine now.

I can use them and not doubt the intentions of the giver. I can, instead, remember my mother and her sometimes long-winded impulsiveness. I've been told that women remember everything forever. In my wedding dishes this has been true. I will enjoy my "new ones" and be a bit freer to remember better moments with that long ago friend of mine.

Now, these perfectly serviceable dishes (that were also not on my gift registry) will have two stories. One of my mother and one of me.

Settle Down

Long Lost
By Christie Martin

After years
I send you
You send me
Missives
And sheaves

We read

If I held your look
Once
I hold your words
Now
I read you
In the aches and spaces
Between

Does blood run
Black and white
Or laughter slip
like paper cuts
Along the fine seams
Between paper and skin?

Where, O where
have you been?


You know you are finally home when you watch your cousin give the weather report. I am finally in a place where I have roots. The region of the country where I now live is where my parents grew up and my extended family has always lived. It was a place I used to visit now and again. I grew up in a military family and moved several times in my childhood: less than some, but enough to get the habit well established. I continued the practice in my adult years.

I love to start over. I like the clean slate. I like introductions and the thrill of discovery. Everyone is on an even playing field at the beginning. The flaws in the turf have yet to be stumbled over. The wrestling of a friendship from an acquaintance is great sport.

Yet, it has cost me as I moved from pature to greener pasture. I have lost many contacts along the way. I have lived on two coasts and several states. My geography is pegged with longing for faces and voices out of reach in time and space.

Internet inventions like Facebook, e-mail, and even Google have given me the gift of reconnections. My life has been enriched by the reintroduction of those "I knew when." History is something we outrun, but it does catch up with us eventually.

History is to the culture like friendship is to the soul. We need to have an objective look now and then at who we were to fully understand who we are and who we may wind up being. Sometimes a change in direction is necessary. Sometimes, we need to come home, wherever that may be, put our feet to the fire and be quiet.

As unmoored as one single life can become at the loss of connections with the past, a culture can as easily be cast adrift. We have a human need to stay grounded in our past. From Frederick Douglas to John Adams from Socrates to the Apostle Paul, the writers who call to us out of history act as friends to the lumbering psyche of a people. They remind us of where we've been, the failed experiments we've already tried as well as the trials that have led to success. Like a truly good friend they can point out our habits and flaws along with our strengths and admirable qualities.

We need history. Without it we forget who we are and must reinvent ourselves. When we do that we run the risk of losing sight of who we were meant to be.

A Last Thought: "Because our expression is imperfect we need friendship to fill up the imperfections." G.K. Chesterton, Illustrated London News, June 6, 1931.